Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (4 page)

No
one breathed. A few of the Russians held their hands out slightly to their
sides as if trying to brace for the impact and keep themselves from falling
over. But – there was nothing. Deep in the ground below the quiet, deserted
streets of Moscow, not a tremor or any kind of disturbance in the Earth was
felt. All the numbers that had been racing and changing so rapidly on the
screen before were now a long string of goose eggs. It was as if the meteorite
had completely disappeared. 

As
Sean continued staring at the digital readouts, he gradually became aware of a
slight pressure that seemed to be building at the back of his skull. At first, he
thought it was just the hum of all the electrical equipment surrounding him,
but slowly it built until it felt like his head was caught in a powerful vice.
The pain of the headache continued to grow, forcing Sean’s hands to his temples
as if to try to keep the sensation from expanding. A wave of nausea assaulted
him and he sagged against the panel, squeezing his eyes shut to try to block
out the pain. The sounds of the world around him receded and all he could hear
was an overwhelming rushing, like a powerful river was pouring through his
ears, carrying his pain-wracked brain along with it. 

Suddenly,
a host of new smells hit him like a wave: dank earth, vegetation and rotting
wood. The pain lessened and he started to straighten up, opening his eyes. Sean
stared in confusion at the sight before him. He saw the control room of the
Russian Space Agency around him – everything was in commotion. People were
running around, shouting commands into telephones. But, overlaid on top of this
view was one of a dark, green forest, full of tall trees and dense undergrowth.
It was like a double-exposed photograph – both scenes lying right on top of
each other. Sean was completely disoriented as it appeared that trees and grass
were growing out of computer monitors and Russian technicians paced quickly
through leafy fern beds. None of them seemed to notice what was happening. As
Sean continued standing very still in the control room, the image of the forest
seemed to be speeding by as if he were running. 

The
room or the forest or both, Sean couldn’t tell, it began to brighten as if a
faint light was moving toward him. Gradually his entire view began to be
suffused by light, until it seemed that the entire world around him, both the
control room and the forest, would explode in a dazzling flash. Just as it
started to become so bright that Sean had to turn away, the light winked out,
like it had just been switched off. The green forest, the smells, the rushing
sensation in his head – everything was gone and Sean once again stood in the
control room, everything around him erupting in noise and chaos. 

The
Russian technician nearest Sean and Kevin was shouting at the split screen in
front of him as sweat ran down his face. Each time a phrase exploded from his
mouth, new beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his pudgy face shook with
the effort. Sean and Kevin stared on in confusion, watching Colonel Tomak and
the other pilots on the screen swiveling in their seats to scream orders to
their subordinates. The screen views from the two helicopters near the crash
site that had previously shown the dark, early morning sky now showed nothing –
only gray static. 

“Garrett,
what’s going on? What happened?” Kevin yelled as his boss from NASA
headquarters hurried over, heavy strain evident on his face. 

The
short, round man was nearly out of breath from his short run across the RKA
command room. He paused briefly to glance at the screen in front of the still
yelling technician before turning to Kevin. 

“We’ve
lost the video feed from both of the helicopters – just a few seconds ago.
Colonel Tomak says that they lost radio contact right about when Jerry hit and
the video cut out just a little after that. They’re trying to confirm what…”

“Two
radio-men down!” yelled one of the American scientists from a couple rows down.
He waved his arms at Kevin and Garrett to get their attention before taking the
short steps up to join them. 

“Boris
down there speaks English and says that two of Tomak’s men, inside the Airborne
Command Center, collapsed just a few seconds after Jerry hit. They haven’t been
able to revive them – they’re saying that they’re dead.”

“What?
How? What killed them?” Garrett shouted. The commotion in the room was so loud
that they had difficulty hearing even though they stood right next to each
other. 

The
American scientist shook his head. “No idea. They just dropped dead. No one
else on the plane is injured and the aircraft itself hasn’t been damaged at
all.”

“What
about radiation levels?” asked Kevin. “Have they been able to detect anything?”

Right
at that moment, a deep Russian voice boomed across the P.A. system causing
everyone to briefly stop what they were doing and look toward the front of the
room. 

The
RKA Director stood at a cheap-looking wooden podium, a microphone pointing
stiffly toward his bearded face. He spoke rapidly, taking only half a minute to
deliver his message, then paused and began in English. 

“Airborne
Command Center has confirmed at least one of helicopters has crashed. No
communication received after meteorite hit. They still try to make contact with
second helicopter, but nothing heard yet. Also, Meteorological Observation
Center forty-six reports no seismic activity. None whatsoever around impact
site or vicinity. There was no explosion from meteorite.”

There
was a brief moment of near silence after Director Kondratyev finished speaking.
The only voices heard were those from the airplane pilots, their tinny chatter
echoing off the still, blank faces of everyone in the room. Then, suddenly, the
commotion resumed almost as quickly as it had stopped, voices and activity
picking up like birds awakening at first light. Soon, the room was filled with
a dull roar as technicians and scientists scrambled around trying to discover
what had happened. 

Kevin,
Sean and the rest of their small group of Americans stood motionless, still
staring down at the grave face of the RKA director. Seemingly heedless of the
activity going on around them, they turned slowly to face each other, each
expression a mixture of shock and confusion. 

Sean
remained immobile, quietly watching his father’s face for hints or clues –
anything. “Dad – what happened?”

Kevin
glanced slowly at the large electronic map display running along the front wall
of the cavernous room, then down at his son. “I don’t know, son. I don’t think
anyone has any idea.” 

The
corner of the wall bit sharply into his shoulder as his entire body slammed
into it. He had been using his left arm for support as he slowly inched down
the dark hallway, but it had slipped and his withered left leg was no help.
When it wasn’t cramped with tension, as was the case now, it usually hung limp,
a thin sack of bones and useless muscles dragging behind him, flopping around,
wherever he went. His left arm was stronger, but with the tightly clenched
muscles so difficult to control, especially with the occasional spasms, it
often failed him. The right arm wasn’t much help either as it was usually
locked in a grisly, exaggerated bodybuilder’s curl. His only saving grace, as
Viktor thought of it, was his right leg – strong, well-developed and expert at
hopping at a steady clip and negotiating turns. The doctors couldn’t explain it
– why this one limb turned out relatively normal when all the others were wracked
by cramping, spasms and poor muscle tone. Of course, they were also unable to
completely pinpoint the exact cause of his general condition. 

Cerebral
palsy had no cure. It was not a disease or an infection, but rather a result of
brain damage that usually occurred during pregnancy or soon after birth. The
brain injury impeded muscle development and control; symptoms varied from child
to child, but most were grouped into various categories depending on the
severity and type. Viktor’s was a fairly typical case, but, luckily, with the
use of his right leg, he wasn’t completely confined to his bed. As many
victims, he’d learned to use his body as it was given to him, neither waiting
around for life to improve nor blaming anyone for his misfortune. 

His
mother, Irina Timofeyevna, on the other hand, blamed everyone – the doctors,
Viktor’s father and, especially, Viktor himself. The small woman’s reproach,
however, never found its way to her own actions. Her refusal to abstain from
alcohol and her beloved cigarettes during her pregnancy was never perceived by
her as being remotely responsible for his condition. Nor were the resulting
late night stumbles and falls as she returned home from yet another festive
gathering of over-consumption. In her eyes, she was blameless. And in the
small, dark apartment, her viewpoint was the only one that mattered. 

Viktor
steadied himself on his right leg and pushed away from the wall, swinging his
right arm slightly for balance. He began hopping slowly again, his left leg tucked
underneath as it bobbed and bounced with the motion. More saliva dripped from
his mouth as his face contorted with the effort, his thick tongue thrust
against the inside of his left cheek. He stared resolutely ahead, focusing on
the doorway to the kitchen at the end of the hall.

The
low muttering of the tiny, kitchen television set reached Viktor’s ears as he
neared the light-rimmed doorway at the end of the hall. None of his senses were
impaired in anyway, something for which he was exceedingly grateful. Although
speech was difficult and his words often unintelligible because of his
inability to control his tongue and mouth, his eyes and ears functioned
perfectly allowing him to fully observe and study the world, if not actually to
participate in it. 

He
pushed open the door. Irina Timofeyevna stood in the corner, staring at the
television, a greasy, yellow cigarette poking out of her curved lips as she
casually sliced up a carrot. She was a solidly built, squat woman dressed in a
dull, flowered smock, her graying hair hanging in strands down the sides of her
face. Her lower lip slightly overlapped the upper, hiding a row of dark,
yellowed teeth set in a severe under-bite. Her compact, round head and dark,
little eyes completed the image of an angry bulldog about to pounce. The beaded
eyes flicked over to Viktor briefly, then back to the television. 

Dull
morning light filtered through the dirty window, driving back some of the
shadows that clung tenaciously to the dusty nooks and corners of the kitchen.
Viktor’s grandmother was sitting on the opposite side of the small room, a
thick shawl hung over her stooped shoulders as she stared absently into space. 

Two
quick hops brought him to a stool beside the table. He looked at the half-loaf
of bread sitting on an old, stained wooden cutting board and the dish of thick,
yellow butter beside it. He glanced at the television then to his mother and
back down at the bread. 

Without
taking her eyes from the little, black box, Irina Timofeyevna sawed off a slice
of the bread and slathered some butter on it with the serrated blade. She
stretched her arm across the table and shoved the bread into Viktor’s open
mouth, cramming in the edges as he tried to chew it up at the same time. She
leaned back against the counter, wiped her hand on the filthy apron tied around
her waist and resumed slicing the carrot, dropping the pieces into a pot on the
stove. Not once did her small eyes leave the television set.

“Your
aunt stopped by a few nights ago – I told her you were asleep,” she said, the
crimped cigarette bobbing up and down as she spoke. “She dropped off some more
of those dumb children’s picture books, but I’m probably going to have to go
sell them to pay for all the food you eat. I’m not running a charity house
here, you know.”

As
Viktor slowly chewed the somewhat stale slice of bread, using his left hand to
move it out of the way of his constantly rolling tongue, he heard the door
behind him creak open. A figure walked past the table, opened the cupboard and
pulled out a cracked, white mug. 

Viktor
watched his older sister ladle some hot water into the mug from a pot on the
stove. She dropped in a tea packet and a couple spoonfuls of sugar, stirring
around the mixture as she leaned against the counter, a few feet away from her
mother. 

“Home
late?” muttered Irina over her cigarette, her dull eyes still focused on the
news program. 

“Not
much later than you – your light was still on,” answered Tatyana as she sipped
the tea. 

Viktor
pointed to the television. “Uht ahpenned – mete… mete…”

“Meteorite,”
Tatyana said. “Looks like it came down – somewhere near the Urals.”

Viktor
glanced up at his mother. She was staring at him, her cigarette burned to a
tiny, glowing stub poking upward behind her pronounced lower lip. Her eyes
flicked down to the table in front of Viktor. There was a glob of half-chewed
bread sitting there, stuck to the tablecloth. 

He
heard a quick scrape of slipper across the floor and then felt a hand slap him
on the back of his head. “Don’t spit when you talk – I don’t have all day to be
cleaning up after you.”

Viktor
stared down at the small hunk of bread. He lifted his left hand, trying to
maneuver it so that he could wipe up the tablecloth. Tatyana grabbed a rag from
the sink and picked up the piece of bread. 

She
took another sip of tea from the mug and looked at Viktor. “Aunt Lydia called
yesterday. She said she’s going to come by at four o’clock to take you to the
museum. She said there won’t be as many people there in the afternoon.”

“When
you see her, tell her to stop buying all those books – we don’t have that kind
of money around here,” snapped Irina. 

“She
pays for the books, Mama, she never asks us for money,” replied Tatyana
quietly. 

“Well,
we don’t need her charity either. This is our family, we can take care of
ourselves. Just because we didn’t go to university and don’t have artsy
friends, doesn’t mean we don’t know how to provide.”

Viktor
glanced over at his grandmother. She hadn’t moved. She never moved – at least,
not for the last five years. One day they had found her, just sitting in the
bedroom, staring off into space. She didn’t respond to them at all, no matter
how hard they shouted or pushed her. They never knew when she was hungry or
when she needed to use the restroom. She had to be spoon-fed and constantly
cleaned up after. Even worse than him, Irina Timofeyevna had said.

He
looked back to his mother. His mind began to drift again, wondering why she had
never allowed Aunt Lydia to take her own mother in, or him, for that matter.
Irina had absolutely refused and continued to do so, becoming even more
irritable and offended each time Lydia brought it up. She could certainly
afford to – her late husband had left her quite comfortable financially and her
schedule at the theater allowed for a great deal of flexibility. But, Irina
would never give up her invalids, despite her constant complaining about their
needs and the time and energy they took from her. Viktor suspected she did
occasionally take the money that Lydia offered her, although she would never
admit to it. He wondered where her pride stemmed from – her humble upbringing,
her misfortune with various men while her sister had won a kind, gentle,
wealthy man whose only fault had been dying too young. Viktor suspected it was
the pride of the lowly, that he’d read about in some of Tolstoy’s writings.
That and her complete and thorough, stubborn meanness. 

Irina
cackled, the mirthless laugh sputtering out of her enormous under-bite in a
series of quick, bullfrog croaks. She gestured at the television with the knife
in her hand. “They say there wasn’t any explosion – they promised an explosion.
I bet they don’t have any idea where the damn thing is.” She laughed again. 

Viktor
stopped straining to try to see the screen and settled back onto his stool. He
eyed the loaf of bread as his stomach grumbled and slowly raised his eyes to
try to catch Tatyana’s glance. But, she was staring at the television too,
still sipping her tea. He didn’t dare say anything – he’d already had one slap
this morning, and when she started early, even the smallest thing could set her
off for the rest of the day. Maybe Tatyana or his mother would bring a
newspaper home in the next few days and he could catch up on all the meteorite
news. Or, if not, he would just have to imagine how it had all happened, as he
did with so many events in life that others simply took for granted. 

Besides
the occasional trip to the park across the street or an outing with his Aunt
Lydia, which his mother rarely allowed, all of Viktor’s life happened in the
cramped apartment – and inside his head. Because in his imagination, he could
go anywhere, do anything, be anyone he wanted. He could be normal, go to school
with other kids, ride the Metro alone and see all the world around him however
he liked. He knew the imagining of something could never take the place of the
real thing, but that was all he had. It had been that way his entire life. And
he expected that it always would be.